


Crumpled Paper, Spilled Ink

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor recognised his second son's musical talent from an early age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumpled Paper, Spilled Ink

Macalaurë barely made it to his room and barred the door with his chair under the handle, before lying down on the floor and bursting into tears. He let the sobs shudder through him as he replayed the day’s lesson in his head; the tremble in his hands as he had played the piece he had been asked to write. He had been so proud of it; it was the longest and the best thing he had ever written himself, or at least he had thought so yesterday… he remembered letting the final bars fade into silence and waiting, his heart fluttering like a trapped moth, for his tutor’s judgement.

“Charming” he had said. “Pretty. Technically accomplished. But, Kanafinwë, it’s dull. It lacks any colour or interest whatsoever. Where’s the passion?”  
At that memory he winced, and sobbed even harder. Seizing a sheaf of manuscript paper and a pen from his desk, he hummed few notes to himself, scribbling them down before they could escape him. _I’ll show him passion_ , he thought savagely, nearly ripping through the paper with the pen nib in his haste. _I’ll show them all._ He looked at the phrase he had written, singing it back to himself through his tears. Terrible, said a voice in his head. With a snarl of anger and frustration, his balled up the sheet of paper and hurled it at the wall. He tried again, with a similar result. And again, and before long there was a small circle of crumpled paper surrounding him. Macalaurë plucked at his harp idly, sniffing, his burst of energy having fled as suddenly as it had come. At once he felt tired, the weight of the morning’s nervousness catching up with him, for he had slept little last night. He curled his body into a tight ball on the floor, and before long he was asleep.

He was woken by an insistent knocking on the door. He blinked sleep from his eyes, trying to judge the height of the knocking by sound alone and guess who was at the door, out of old habit. “Go away, Nelyo!” he shouted finally. “I don’t want to talk to you!”

There was silence, and then a quiet chuckle. “Guess again, Káno” said his father’s voice, “would you please open the door? Nelyo says you’ve been barricaded in there for hours.” Macalaurë got to his feet, if a little reluctantly. Taking the chair out from under the door handle, he opened the door a crack, peering out with sudden shame and seeing his father looking down at him appraisingly.

“I… I’m sorry,” said Macalaurë awkwardly, as his father came into the room, closed the door and sat down on the bed, motioning for Macalaurë to sit down next to him. Fëanáro regarded the room, taking in Macalaurë’s bag and cloak in the corner where he had flung them carelessly that morning after his lesson, the harp still standing where he had placed it in the middle of the room. The crumpled paper and a spilled bottle of ink on the floor; he must have knocked it over as he slept, Macalaurë realised, his heart sinking. He stared at his father apprehensively, wondering whether he was about to be reprimanded.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” asked Fëanáro at last, his voice surprisingly mild and neutral.  
Macalaurë blinked. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Fëanáro sighed and glanced around the room again, raising an eyebrow. “Really.”

Macalaurë bit his lip. “I’m useless!” he burst out at last, looking away in shame. “Atar, I haven’t your talent… I’m supposed to be good at music at least, if nothing else, but I can’t write anything, nothing of consequence anyway… everything I try comes out wrong!”

Fëanáro’s face grew stormy. “Who told you that?”

For a moment Macalaurë hesitated, but then he found himself telling the story of his lesson that day, and realising, to his shame, that tears were starting in his eyes at the mere thought. When he had finished, his father was silent, but merely took Macalaurë in his arms, holding and shushing him as his son cried into his forge tunic. Macalaurë inhaled the hot metal smell of him, letting its familiarity calm him. Suddenly he felt ashamed of his outburst, pathetic and childish. He extricated himself from the embrace, scrubbing at his face with the heels of his hands self-consciously. “Sorry Atar” he mumbled. “I’ll… I’ll try harder in future.” He peered upwards to see his father looking back at him intently with burning silver-grey eyes. There was pain in those eyes, Macalaurë realised. _Was he disappointed…?_

“Kanafinwë” said Fëanáro, his voice quiet and almost dangerous. “Listen carefully. Let no one ever tell you that you are useless, or talentless, or in any way less than me, or your mother, or any of the other artists or creators of the Ñoldor. I do not want to hear it, I do not even want you to think it, do you understand?”

“I…” Macalaurë’s voice stuck in his throat.

“For Eru’s sake, you’re nineteen years old!” exclaimed Fëanáro. “I bet your tutor was nowhere near as good as you at your age. I don’t even need to be a musician to tell you that, all anyone needs to do is to hear you play, to hear you sing.”

“But…”

“Did you think that inspiration simply appears when you need it? If you still do, then let this be your first lesson. You will have to live a lot longer before you do your best work, but you must start somewhere.” His father smiled ruefully. “I would not have even assigned you a tutor, I would have taught you myself if you hadn’t surpassed me as far as music was concerned by the age of ten.”

“Then… then you’re not… angry…?” he gestured at his room.

“What I see here” said Fëanáro, his eyes glinting with sudden laughter, “is an artist at work. My heart tells me that your life will be one of crumpled paper, spilled ink and barricaded doors, Káno. Just make sure the barricaded doors don’t completely block out those who love you, and that out of the spilled ink and crumpled paper comes something that you are proud of.”

When Macalaurë didn’t reply, Fëanáro continued. “I did not see eye to eye with my tutors at your age either, Káno. Now they call me the greatest of the Ñoldor.” He snorted. “But that is neither here nor there. The point is, it was many years before I did my best work. Now you, my son, you have not lived much yet. You will grow into a different person, you will experience more of the world, and then one day, perhaps when you least expect it, your music will move that world. People will fall weeping at your feet and nations will rise and fall to the sound of your voice. Trust me on this.”

Macalaurë laughed uncertainly. “I’ll never be like you” he said, unsure whether his father was joking.

“No. No you won’t” agreed Fëanáro, entirely serious now. “And I wouldn’t want you to. Be someone different, Káno. Surprise me. Surpass me.”

“Atar…” Macalaurë’s heart sank, for he knew this was impossible.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” He looked down at his feet, embarrassed.

Fëanáro gave him a long look, before seeming to relent. “Alright. Then may I ask something of you, Káno?”

He blinked. “Yes. Yes of course!”

“May I hear this piece you wrote?”


End file.
